“John is busy,” she would say, as she mounted the stairs to her lonely room, and he buttoned his coat and hastened away to business, without a ‘good-bye’ or a ‘good night,’ then she would draw out her knitting and knit on, often through tear-blinded eyes.  Sometimes she did not hear a remark the first time and would ask to have it repeated, but the manifest impatience with which it was done always sent a pang well-likened to a sword-thrust, but the dear mother would cover the wound and think within herself, “I know it is a great trouble to talk to deaf people, I ought to keep still.”

Strange that these stabs come not alone from the lost sheep of the family, but from the son who is the honoured citizen; from the daughter who shines in her circle as a woman of many virtues; from grandchildren trained up in the Sabbath-school.

“Into each life some sunshine must fall, as well as rain,” and Mrs. Kensett had much of hers from Benjie’s letters; they were regular as the dew and cheery as the sun, a balsam for the wounds in the poor heart.  They were not mere scribbles either—­“I am well, and I hope you are; I haven’t time to write more now”—­but good long letters, with accounts of all his comings and goings, the people he met, the books he read, here a dash of fun and there a poetical fancy; and through them all ran like a golden thread the dear boy’s tender love and reverence for his mother.  Never did maiden watch for lover’s missive with more ardour; sometimes he wrote one day, sometimes another, but always once a week, and Mrs. Kensett kept a sharp look out for the postman; when the time drew near for him to come she made many journeys down the stairs to see if she could get a glimpse of him.  When the expected letter was not forthcoming she felt somehow as if the postman were to blame.  But when he did come, ah! that was the one bright day of the week; how she read and re-read it, and put it in her pocket and thought it over, while she went on with her knitting, then when some little point was not quite distinct in her mind, brought it out and read it again, so that by the time another one came this one was worn out.  John’s wife thought to regulate this one small pleasant excitement of her mother-in-law’s life by remarking to her husband that “somebody ought to tell Benjamin to write on a particular day, mother was so fidgety when it was time for the mail.”

How small a thing is a letter to make one happy! and yet some of us let the sword pierce the dear mother heart by withholding that which costs us so little.  God pity us when our mothers are gone beyond the reach of voice or pen.

One day her letter contained news of great importance.  It was read and pondered long.  Benjie was going to be married!  The mother did not like the news; somehow in all her plans for Benjie the wife had not come in.  Now this would be the last of her comfort in him; he would marry and settle down, and probably be just like John—­given up to business.  He pictured out his future bride as good and lovely.  Of course he thought so, but poor Mrs. Kensett could get no vision of a daughter-in-law except a tall woman with severe expression.  “She is an heiress,” Benjie wrote.  Well, what of that?  John’s wife had property too.  She would likely be proud, and ashamed of a plain old woman like her.